The Muse
by Valentine T. Bloom
Summary: Rachel Berry, when not studying or singing, spent her time furthering her literary talents (of which, she had been told, she had aplenty). What she hadn't been told, and, for her own sake, should be soon, is that it is somewhat disturbing writing about Quinn Fabray behind her back.
1. Chapter 1

**The Muse**

_Chapter One_

* * *

"The eroding hours that Quinn spent during the night appeared in the moment empty. Quietly they passed: the slipping sands of an hourglass slowly pooling into the bottom cavity. Her mind, caught within its own centre of gravity, did not notice how long the night was, and she never grew restless. Slow, and slow, and slow. Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. The time would come. She would have to face her. She would have to step forward and bare herself before her. Hunched over in her bed, encapsulated in darkness, bound only within her thoughts, thoughts of bright hallways and domino chains of students; thoughts of Rachel Berry, and of each person around in the hall seeing the two together, and one by one learning of what was the truth: maybe not tomorrow, Quinn? Maybe, maybe the next day, maybe even after that: maybe a chain of days first must fall before they learn the truth. Maybe never.

"A peculiar tingle at the centre of her skull caught her attention, distorting her thoughts into the conscience realm, where she could move, and scratch her sensitive skin and glance over at the clock and see the bright red numbers, skeletal and dead: 2:13. Was I asleep? I was thinking. Might as well have been. Two a.m. I can get. If I fall now. Ten minutes it'll take. Four hours and thirty minutes. Maybe. About that.

"Quinn kicked up the tucked in covers as she pulled herself under, the far reaches too tight against her feet, suffocating them within heat and claustrophobia. The red lights disappeared from her vision only to reverberate in her imagination as refracting images on the inside of her eyelids: they flashed across, her eyes moving to follow it and it moving because her eyes followed them.

"All be watching me tomorrow. Each one. Notice I'm tired. That I'm nervous. I'll cry. Get it out of the way now. Be helpful. Makes me tired. Salt maybe. I don't even. Just. Quinn adjusted herself under the sheets, like every night: each one a new challenge, finding comfort, finding balance. Under the sheets, too tight. Out of, too cold. Half out? Souls facing heaven. That helps. On my belly. Suffocating on the pillow. Puffs up around. Sleep right on the mattress. Yesterday it was fetal. Crying. Hope Quinn. I'll never make it. Maybe I'll vomit and wake up sick.

"Rachel's so short. I used to be. When I was twelve. Not as pretty. Ambitious. I am a bitch."

Rachel stopped, and, taking a moment to herself, deleted the last line. And the line before the line before. Then, convincing herself of substantiated artistic merit - ambiguity, whereby the reader questions whether or not she is saying that Rachel is 'not as pretty', or that she is 'not as pretty' as Rachel - she replaced in in the text, and leaned back. Before her sat thirtythree pages of literaryfictionesque prose, highbrow, yet a little kitsch. A dilemma.

"Rachel!" her father's voice called from, judging by the time: 5:15, and the fact he had inquired only thirtythree minutes ago what she had been interested in dining upon for dinner, the kitchen. And, validation, "Dinner's ready! Wash your hands!"

"My hands are clean!" she replied, leaving her laptop open (for the relationship she held with her father's was not only healthy, but very open, and her fascination with Quinn Fabray had been voiced, if only because they had discovered her writing one night when she had fallen asleep, and had had it out with her) and jogging down the stairs, entering the kitchen.

"How's the writing going?" her dad asked, cutting her father off before he could ask the followup.

"Very well, thank you, dad! I wrote another few paragraphs." She said, kissing his forehead.

"Aha! So you were typing on your dirty keyboard, so your hands aren't clean." He replied, slyly smiling up at his daughter.

Rachel gaped and looked at her father, conspiracy on her mind, to which her father simply turned back to the dinner with a satisfied smile. The sound of the tap flowing a minute later with Rachel's defeated sigh only made it grow.

She appreciated it though, really. They care. Every day that Rachel had come home with clothing ruined, they had no begrudgment (to Rachel, anyway), in pulling out a tissue and a credit card. It was not them buying her love, but a part of an attempt to buy her happiness, which they supplemented with the tissue, symbolic of parental support and comfort. She thanked her father without even so much as a snarky aside when she received her bowl of vegan pasta - just another way in which they demonstrated their love: enduring the dietary decisions Rachel had resolved herself with ever since she was eleven: the age of enlightenment.

Quinn, so she had been told, wasn't so lucky.


	2. Chapter 2

**The Muse**

_Chapter Two_

* * *

The morning bell signalled the beginning of homeroom, which for Rachel meant her gossip time with Kurt Hummel. The homeroom teacher, a history teacher, was old, very old, had already secured tenure, and had lost any and all interest whatsoever in teaching his students, who, aside from Rachel, had already demonstrated a complete apathy for anything scholarly. When Rachel walked in, she gave Mr Hallowitz a grand ole smile and an apple on his desk (which she awarded him every Monday), which he took with a 'Thank you, Miss Berry' and a smile. It made Rachel feel good. Doing nice things and all that.

Kurt sat in the back, where his overly flamboyant wardrobe was sure to attract as little attention as possible, on his phone, playing a game, or shopping, or something or other. Rachel never got to see, as the moment she sat down in the morning beside him she launched into a conversation about either her voice, the current state of theatre, or her novel.

"I think my voice cracked yesterday in the shower."

Kurt nodded, humming fauxamusement.

"Kurt! This is serious business! What if it's recurrent?"

"Then I suppose you better rest your voice. Stop talking, maybe?"

Rachel pouted, feeling a little dejected. Leaning slightly over to observe what was going on on his phone screen, she saw Angry Bird, and she felt a little bit better. Kurt's eye flinched with sociopathic rage. A little more than a little bit better.

"I wrote another two pages of my novel over the weekend." She declared proudly, smiling with a high chin.

"Synopsis."

"Our main character shows up to school the next day - after having skipped, remember? because she was so nervous about seeing the girl she liked? - and is all paranoid that everyone's gonna be on her, and she ends up making a little scene in the hallway when the girl she likes tries to talk to her." Rachel continued on with the (un)brief synopsis, which Kurt was more or less aware. She did this nearly every day, at least for the last two months, ever since National Novel Writing Month invigorated her to take up this shenanigan. Kurt remembered, like, two pages worth of details. Now three.

"What's the main character's name again?"

Rachel pursed her lips, and, after a slight moment of debate, just continued on where she had been interrupted.

"Rachel. I asked a question."

"What was it?"

"I seem to have forgotten the main character's name in the midst of being so overwhelmed with emotions over the sharp melodrama that you fill your pages with. What's the girl's name?"

"I never said it."

Kurt looked at her funny.

"What?"

"Really?" he asked, sincerely confused. He could've sworn.

Rachel sat quietly as Kurt stared her down, as other students filled the empty seats in the classroom, as the inevitable void of silence that had seemed to persist during the lapse in their conversation slowly evolved into the chatter of the influx of oblivious teenagers. Rachel turned away. Her eyes scanned over them: some alone, others talking to friends beside them, others calling across the class, one or two copying answers - not for this class, maybe for math - others genuinely attempting to do the homework (they would receive the answers two periods from now when they realized that all hope is, at least for this assignment, lost). Sit quietly. Look attentive. He'll forget.

"Rachel?" Kurt asked.

"Alright, class," Mr Hallowitz began, standing up, "Today, I'm gonna make it very simple. I'm going to put on a video, and you all can remain silent and take notes and I'll collect the notes and give you all grades. Just no talking. Got it?"

The students who hadn't done other homework were the most enthusiastic. Kurt felt cockblocked. Rachel was relieved.

The video was exactly as everyone had expected it to be: long, overwrought, low quality - in terms of both production and preservation; flickering VHS - and was much too long for any high school period, and so not much of anything had been learned by the time the bell rang and the students in the class stood up to leave. Kurt had hoped to broach the subject of the novel's heroine to Rachel once more, but the brunette scurried off the moment she could, which everyone, including Mr Hallowitz, took as just her natural enthusiasm.

Rachel rushed right out. Writing literature about Quinn wasn't wrong, no! not at all, and there was nothing to be ashamed about. Of course, she didn't need to broadcast it all over the school either; no, Kurt wasn't just anyone: he was a close friend, and if she were to tell anyone about her creative fiction endeavors, he certainly would be the first one, but he didn't need to know right now, especially considering - Quinn!

"The hell, Berry? Watch it."

Rachel stood, silent and trembling as the girl, blonde hair tightly pulled, makeup evenly and expertly applied, red uniform formfitting and flattering, hard eyes glaring her down, passed by and continued on its way.

"Sorry." She inaudibly attempted, far too late.


End file.
